Paul Potts
A singing sensation not quite in the footsteps of Sanjaya from a British talent show.
A singing sensation not quite in the footsteps of Sanjaya from a British talent show.
I bet not smarter than this crow. Video probably pirated care of youtube.
Come Monday, the Don Imus Show (not the CBS one, but the circus show featuring “nappy headed hos” that we are now witnessing) will meld into the low frequency drone of our hypermedia induced ADD existence. The Wikipedia entry for Mr. Imus will have replaced its current even tracker icon with a has been icon.
If a remedy for ignorance is more ignorance, I am happy to report that any shortcoming in my knowledge of haute coutre has been plugged by a heretofore lack of scholarship in the life and times of Don Imus. I can’t say I feel too sorry for Don, he surely understands the occupational hazards of being a shock jock and as it turns out, this one may have been a volt too many.
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Looks awfully familiar to me. Courtesy NY Times.
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Shashi Tharoor had an opinion piece in the NY Times about cricket and American apathy towards it. I must say that it cannot be one of his stronger attempts at writing (actually the only Tharoor I have read is bits and pieces of ‘India from Midnight to the Millenium’). The bottom line of the piece is - Americans are too brutish to get cricket.
Besides being humorless and filled with bromides, (”And the notion that anyone would watch a game that, in its highest form, could take five days and still end in a draw provokes widespread disbelief among results-oriented Americans.”), the piece also demonstrates a blissful ignorance about baseball while making a facile attempt at comparing it with cricket.
In describing the futility of interesting Americans with cricket, he states:
Why try to sell Kiri Te Kanawa to people who prefer Anna Nicole Smith?
Pray tell, which ‘people’ prefer Kiri Te Kanawa to Anna Nicole Smith? Being too much of boor to have heard of Kiri Te Kanawa before this piece, I’d rather not make the acquaintance of these splendid people myself.
… and so it was that I wandered the culinary wilderness for a large part of my adult life in the quest of a perfect chapati. Oh yes, every once in a while I would get my hands on one - like at that North Indian restaurant Sharma’s in Trivandrum. Even my mom’s chapatis, soft as they were, never quite attained Comanecian flawlessness.
My own attempts at making chapatis started off as complete disasters. Over the course of time, they became passable. Was it a problem with the flour? The timing? The amount of oil? The kneading, rolling, thickness? The warmth of the water? The permutations were enough to drive a man mad. There was a secret these North Indians had and they were simply not sharing. Either that, or chapati making was so ingrained in their DNA that it would have been akin to explaining the notion of beauty or a joke.
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Hindi Chabati. This was an epithet that Indians such as myself endured from our earliest childhood days growing up in Kuwait. The tormentor was always an Arab (more often than not a Palestinian), as would be evidenced by the inability to pronounce the p phoneme.
The first word Hindi meaning Indian derives from Al Hind, the word for India in Arabic. As I recall, every time I was called a Hindi it was at worst with the tone of voice one would reserve for a slug or at best for a stray dog. Chapati is of course that simplest of Indian breads, a staple of every North Indian meal.
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